


Of Philosophers, Kings, and Artists

by maglor_still_lives, NelyafinweFeanorion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ancient History, Gen, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, and Diogenes and Cromwell and stuff too, featuring the very BEST of the khans, the incomparable Möngke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 18:38:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20394325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maglor_still_lives/pseuds/maglor_still_lives, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NelyafinweFeanorion/pseuds/NelyafinweFeanorion
Summary: Maglor meets some strange people through the ages.





	Of Philosophers, Kings, and Artists

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NelyafinweFeanorion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NelyafinweFeanorion/gifts).

> That thing with the Mongols, by the way? That actually happened. (Although, I should clarify: it wasn’t Genghis Khan, but his grandson Möngke who presided over the debate. I should probably have been clearer in the story.)
> 
> This fic was inspired by art by the wonderful @maedhrosrussandol on tumblr! Check it out here: [Maglor](http://fav.me/ddevec3)

The humans had many names for him. 

He didn’t usually provide one, if nobody asked. (And quite often, no one did.) The names he was born with were meant for someone long dead. Not like anybody would recognize them anyway. 

It was much more interesting to see what the humans called him. You could learn far more about the people giving the name than the one receiving it. Everybody reacts differently to a lurking stranger, reeking of fish and brine. The Phoenicians thought he was a thief. The Greeks thought he was a god. 

_Planetes _, they called him. Wanderer, same as the bright stars that roamed the sky. Not what he would have chosen--he and the stars didn’t get along well these days--but it would serve. 

From what he could gather, he was a local legend along the coast. When he ran into sailors, they would, more often than not, invite him into their homes before they even spoke. Maglor could have been a god. You never know. 

Maglor hadn’t wandered into their society so much as he had watched it grow around him. A rugged land became tamed, hills were overrun with cattle, and marble cities sprouted from the dust. He didn’t mind so much—every so often, he needed to get supplies that fishermen’s families couldn’t provide. There was better begging in the bigger cities than the little towns, and he needed money for necessities. 

———————

He kept his head high as he entered Athens, determined to make up for the odor of rotten fish and seaweed that rolled from him in waves. He still had some pride left. 

The city was beautiful, he thought absently, but more than that, it smelled like food. He hadn’t eaten in days, and that was all his brain wanted to think about. 

But it would have to wait, because he had no money. 

Maglor followed the crowds until he reached a large marketplace. He racked his brains for a song that would fit the bustling atmosphere; a few lines of the Noldolantë drifted through his mind, and he suppressed a wry smile. _ That won’t do. _

He didn’t know much in Greek, so he picked something else. An old Westron ditty would serve, even if it didn’t exactly fit his mood. It was a cheerful song about the joys of pastoral life—sheep and shepherds, cows and milkmaids. The great open sky and the soft black earth of the pastures. That sort of thing. 

He spread his cloak on the ground and began singing. He started off slowly, quietly, and as the verse went on, he gathered steam. 

By the time he reached the second verse, a crowd had gathered. Maglor put more energy into the song, focusing as hard as he could on the images of the pastures and farmhouses. Maglor could tell from the audience’s faces that they were seeing them too.

When the song ended and the crowd dispersed, one man was left standing there. Tanned, weatherbeaten, and thickly bearded, he looked just as filthy as Maglor. 

“How’d you do that?” the man demanded. 

Maglor shrugged. “Magic.” He stooped to collect the coins that the audience had left for him. 

The man snorted. “No such thing.” He squinted at Maglor. “Was it fumes?”

“Do you smell anything?” Maglor picked up the last coin and straightened again. 

“Nothing but dog shit and seaweed, but those do a good job of obscuring most everything else.”

“I need to eat. Excuse me.” Maglor stepped past the man and made his way to the olive stand. 

He handed over a few coins and left with bunches of fresh olives, plus some cheese and bread to boot. He hurried away from the stall, into a shaded corner between two buildings. He began inhaling the food, not caring that he’d probably feel awful later. 

“Haven’t eaten in a while?” the old man’s voice piped up from nearby. 

Maglor turned so fast he spewed cheese on the ground. “Why are you following me?”

“What else will I do? That trick with the song is the most interesting thing to happen here in months.”

Maglor swallowed and collected himself. “You’re not impressed by much, are you?”

“I’m a cynic. My name’s Diogenes,” he said, in a very overdue introduction. 

“I’m Mag—no, never mind. That name won’t do. Call me what you want.”

“I will,” Diogenes said. From his tone, it could have been a threat. “So where’re you from?”

“Quite a ways west of here,” Maglor said. People no longer believed in Valinor. If he said there was a continent across the ocean, that he’d been there, and that humans could never go, he’d be laughed out of the city. It sounded a little ridiculous, even to him. 

“Yeah? I’m from the East. Sinope.”

_ I thought I heard an accent _. Maglor’s Greek wasn’t particularly good, but the man’s inflection had seemed slightly off. “Where’s that?”

Diogenes shrugged. “East.”

“Is it coastal?” Now that Maglor had eaten, his mood was improving immensely. “I could go there sometime.”

“It’s got a port, so I suppose it must be, although I couldn’t tell you what body of water it’s on.”

“Maybe I’ll visit.”

“Is that what you do? You just walk along the seaside?”

Maglor was a little offended to hear it put so bluntly. “I made some terrible mistakes. The ocean is a reminder of my crimes."

“What did you do?” 

Maglor got quiet. “Terrible things." 

“Such as?” 

“That’s my business.” 

“Oh, come off it,” Diogenes drawled. “It can’t have been that bad.”

“What would you know?” Maglor shot back. 

“It can’t be worse than the things the gods have done to us mortals. And everybody worships them.”

Maglor smiled bitterly. “I’m not a god.”

“Then why is your conscience so much more refined than theirs, that you regret things they would do without hesitation?” 

_ Just leave already, won’t you? _ “I killed a lot of people. Innocents. Out of selfishness.”

Diogenes laughed aloud, a hoarse, bitter cackle. “That’s all? Most of the great kings would not think twice about that. Let alone gods.” He paused a moment. “Out of curiosity, where was this? And why?”

“Like I said, not your business. Don’t ask questions you don’t understand.” He turned away from the beggar, feigning interest in the bread that now seemed stale and cold. 

“My friend, asking questions is all I ever do.” And with that, the old man disappeared into the crowd. 

——————

Maglor decided not to leave the city immediately. The constant commotion was refreshing, and the people certainly seemed interesting. He found himself a shaded corner of the market square to spend his downtime, but most of the day, he wandered the city. 

Athens was the grandest human city he’d ever seen. The Greeks loved white marble almost as much as the Vanyar, and for just a few hundred years, it was beyond impressive.

——————-

The slap of bare feet on the cobblestones preceded Diogenes’s entrace by only a few seconds. Winded, the philosopher halted in front of Maglor. “I need—“ he gasped, “—I need—a chicken.”

“Do I look like a man with chickens to spare?” Maglor spread his hands to better show the bare cobbles around him.

“No, but you move quietly. Help me steal one.”

“Why?”

“Because Plato’s making a speech. And he’s wrong, and I can prove it.”

“Stealing… is that moral?” Maglor knew nothing interested the beggar like questions of philosophy. Maybe he’d talk so long he’d forget about the chicken.

“You’ve committed so many terrible crimes, will this really weigh heavier on your conscience?”

_ I should’ve known better than to bait him out of it. _“Fine. Fine, I’ll help.”

“Excellent,” Diogenes cackled. “I saw some on Alexios’s stand. Big, healthy ones. ALready plucked. They’re perfect.” 

Maglor stood, stretched, and followed the beggar across the market. It was midday, and most people had gone inside to avoid the heat. But Alexios was still at his stall, keeping an eye out for trouble.

“_ There. _” Diogenes crouched--Maglor could hear his joints popping--and pointed with a knobbly finger.

“Which one?”

“The big one.”

“Alive?”

“Yes!”

Maglor nodded. “I need you to distract him. Go make a scene.”

There was perhaps no one in the world more qualified to do such a thing. Diogenes had devoted his life to deliberately provoking others--no one else could come close.

He sprinted away from Maglor and straight into a fruit stand. Pomegranates, grapes, and lemons toppled to the ground. Melons cracked in half on the ground, spilling their orange innards on the cobblestones. 

At the sound, Alexios turned away from his booth--and Maglor saw his chance. He darted behind the counter. His feet made no sound on the cobblestones, and as he stepped into the shadows of the awning, he seemed almost to disappear.

The poor bird had no idea what hit him. Maglor crouched slowly, and imperceptibly reached forward around the bird that kept scratching at his basket unawares. With all the suddenness of a striking cobra, he snapped his hands around the bird’s wings and tucked it under his cloak. He left in the opposite direction, disappearing into the winding streets. 

He was supposed to meet up with Diogenes near Plato’s Academy, but the man was nowhere to be found. Maglor waited in the shadows of the majestic house of learning, jumping at every sound.

The chicken, it turned out, was quite cuddly. Elves gave off a lot of body heat, and now that the bird was bald, he needed to stay warm.

It took nearly an hour before the philosopher appeared, and that gave Maglor plenty of time to reflect upon the series of decisions that had led him here. Two weeks ago he had been wandering the seaside, drowning in remorse. Now, he was stealing livestock for the whims of a--beggar? Philosopher? Madman?

And, he realized, it wasn’t so bad to be distracted from the regrets of a lifetime. This was the happiest he’d felt in a century, and by far the most interesting place he’d been in a millennium.

His thoughts were interrupted when the man in question appeared. His cloak was stained with what looked like fruit, and his beard was somehow even more disheveled than usual. From the looks of it, he’d been in quite a food fight.

“What took you so long?” Maglor said, not caring that his tone was a little sharp.

“I got carried away. Sorry.”

“Never mind that.” Maglor deposited the plucked chicken, who looked somewhat disgruntled, in Diogenes’s arms. “What are you going to do with it?”

A wicked grin spread over the old man’s face. “Wait and see.”

\-------------------------

That night, they were lounging in Maglor’s corner. Diogenes was still cackling as he replayed the events of that afternoon.

Suddenly, he grew serious. “So are you going to stay with us, _ planetes _? Or are you going to go back to wandering the seacoast?”

Maglor pauses for a moment, considering. “I think I’ll stay.”

\------------------

The steppe stretched out to all sides, an endless sea of emerald green. The land was almost completely flat from horizon to horizon, but Maglor didn’t mind. It was worlds better than the mountains they had just crossed: even in October, even in the lowest passes their guides could find, it was still cold enough to kill three of their oxen and snowy enough to trap their carts for days.

He was on a mission to see the Great Khan, five thousand miles away. He was traveling with a delegation from France, seeking an alliance against the Muslim armies threatening from the east and south of Europe. The delegation was led by a Franciscan named William

The delegation had passed by Constantinople, where Maglor had been staying for the past few centuries. City life was beginning to wear on him, and the Black Sea grew more crowded by the day. There wasn’t any solitude to be had. He longed for the sprawling pastures and open sky, all the things that a massive coastal city never had.

So, when he’d spotted them coming through the city, he’d harangued the emissaries into hiring him as a guard. He didn’t ask for much pay, just a chance to see new places and stretch his legs away from the city. He’d been handed a sword, piled onto an oxcart, and they set off without delay.

Now, weeks later, they were past the Caucasus and well into the Tatar heartland. The landscape was nearly empty; they’d spotted only a few herding families and once, a band of three young men on the horizon who had galloped away almost immediately. Maglor had pointed them out, but none of the others could see them--it seemed his elvish vision hadn’t deteriorated too much over the years.

The burn on his right hand had faded away almost completely, almost as though the Valar had forgotten about his punishment. He could hold a sword again, although it felt odd to be carrying one after so many years of peace.

They were accompanied by several other monks and three more guards, and a pair of Tatar guides who knew this land better than Maglor ever could. They carried short bows and rode on small, fiery steppe horses that reminded Maglor of the Avarin stock he’d seen in Ossiriand, and later, in the regions far west of the Misty Mountains. Small, hairy, and half-wild, these horses could endure anything. 

Twilight was falling, and the oxen were getting tired. They stopped near a small stream--other than that, any place was as good as any other in such a flat region. There was nowhere to hide.

Maglor unhitched the oxen while the friars set up camp. The other guards milled around, hands on the pommels of their swords, while the guides watered their horses. 

Maglor led the oxen to the stream, and all three of them drank deeply. He hobbled the animals and left them to graze.

Returning to the others, he rounded up the listless guards and directed them to work. “Abdul, get the fire. Halfdan, help Brother William with his tent. Theodore! Stop pissing so close to the stream and fetch the food out of the wagon.”

They grumbled, but they obeyed. Maglor’s voice hadn’t lost its power.

Once camp was set up, he took the first watch. The stars appeared as the campfire dwindled, in a mass of silver that covered nearly every inch of the sky. 

One bright star stood out to the west. It seemed to travel a different path from the others, drifting this way and that as it pleased without regard for the laws or customs of nature. 

Maglor stared at it. _ Do you hate me? _ He didn’t know how he felt about it.

_In any case, tell Elrond how I’m doing. Tell him I miss him, and that things are very exciting here on Earth._

Was it his imagination, or did the star twinkle as he said that?

The watch was uneventful, and he woke Abdul when the moon began to creep over the horizon. As he fell asleep, he wondered what was happening in Valinor. There was a chance that, after all these years, his family was reembodied. Someday, maybe, they would come to visit him. 

\-------------------

Karakorum was like no city Maglor had ever seen. With the exception of the palace, every single building in the city was mobile. If an attack threatened, most of the city could simply move away.

_ Why didn’t I ever think of this? _ he wondered. _ It would have saved so many lives _.

But that was over and done with. As interesting as new methods of governance were, it didn’t seem like he would get a chance to use them anytime soon. He didn’t plan on conquering anybody for the foreseeable future.

Still, though, a lot could probably be learned by hanging around the Khan’s court for a few months.

They’d passed herds of cattle, yaks, camels, sheep, and goats on the way in. Now, the only animals around were horses, who grazed on the scrubby grass. They wore very little tack, just a simple saddle and bridle. The Mongols, Maglor noticed, were making use of a technology that was new to humans: stirrups. The Eldar had used them for millennia. Maglor had no idea why they hadn’t caught on sooner, but everybody in Europe had looked at him cockeyed when he’d put them on his saddle. 

William disappeared briefly into the Khan’s palace. When he came back out, an attendant led them to a tent. The guards got their own, smaller structure just next door. 

“So, are we going to be received soon?” Maglor heard one of the monks ask friar William.

“We have been asked to wait,” William replied, dejected. “I hope it will be soon, but I fear there are more pressing matters for him to attend to.” 

Maglor passed the days in Karakorum easily. There was always a wrestling match, or a horse race, or a political argument to eavesdrop on. He’d bought himself a fiery black horse with the three months of payment that William owed him, and named it Curvo. In his free time, he galloped across the steppe or practiced archery with the other off-duty guards.

Alcohol flowed constantly, mostly in the form of fermented horse milk called _ airag _. Emissaries were given free provisions, but the monks found it didn’t agree with their digestion, so Maglor could drown his sorrows at will. Most of the time, though, he was too distracted to mope.

He’d expected to feel alone in this place, but there were dozens of people from the exact same regions that he had most recently been in. So when he got a hankering for Turkish food or needed somebody to practice the local language with, there was always a place he could go.

\-------------------

Maglor was off-duty, and had gone wandering around the city. He liked walking aimlessly, even if he was far from the seashore: it was a way to see things that he wouldn’t ordinarily be apart of.

He passed by the palace and heard the sounds of shouting. This, in itself, was not unusual. After a long day governing, the court liked to let off a little steam.

But this was different. There were multiple languages, and even a voice that sounded a lot like his friar William. _ Could something be wrong? _

He walked straight up to the main gate. The guards looked at him askance. 

“I’m with the Dutchman,” Maglor declared in his best Mongolian. “I’m his bodyguard.” 

“Fine. He’s with the Khan.”

Maglor walked through the silver doors, into the most ornate place he’d been in a long time. Compared to the spareness of the steppe, the palace was absolutely lavish. It was filled with gold and silver decorations, set with gemstones, and in the courtyard stood a life-sized tree made of precious metal. _ Curvo would be impressed _. 

At the door of the throne room, two more guards crossed their spears in his path. Maglor threw his hands up to show he was unarmed. “I’m with Rubruck,” he declared, not slowing down as he walked toward them.

Just before they collided, the guards withdrew their spears. Confidence, Maglor reflected, could get you anywhere. 

Inside, there was some kind of sporting event being held. But beneath the throne, where usually there would be teams of wrestlers, there were three areas cordoned off for scholars.

To the right were the Christians Maglor had traveled with. In the center, a group of Muslims he had seen earlier, and on the left were three Buddhist monks, unmistakable in their saffron robes. 

The Khan chuckled and sipped his _ airag _, sloshing a little over the side of the cup. “I believe the Christians had the next round. Please, continue.” 

William hiccuped. “You see--you see, your majesty, the issue isn’t that the world was created _ by _ God so much as it was created-- _ for _ God.” He took a staggering step forward, gesticulating to emphasize his point. “We exist at His pleasure and our lives are in His hands. So--hic--it’s impossible to say what determines where one’s soul goes after death. There is no scale for--no measure to weigh a soul against.” He mazed back to his coreligionists, receiving slaps on the back and slurred congratulations.

Clearly, Maglor realized, they had already been debating for a while.

The Buddhist emissary opened his mouth, looked ill, and closed it again. His deputy, leaning heavily to one side, came to the rescue. “No. _ No. _ No, no no, no, no. You have it all backward. Good acts, are good, and evil acts are--evil. For every person, it is the same. When a rich man gives money to a poor man--that is good. When someone steals, that is--not good. When your grandfather”--he took a step towards the Khan--”when your grandfather killed untold thousands, that was-- _ hey! _” he cut himself off in a shout as the third Buddhist smacked him on the shoulder. The third monk hissed something in Hindi and the deputy turned back to the Khan and bowed deeply, nearly losing his balance as he did so. “That was very good,” he mumbled. “Your grandfather. Very good.”

The Muslims held their silence, staring impassively at the other two teams. They had kept their pledge of abstinence admirably, but Maglor wasn’t sure if that was helping them. When everyone else was drunk, speaking rationally was not an advantage.

“No!” William shouted, lurching toward the Buddhist representative. “God is great. He does not judge us. He protects us.” 

One of the monks behind him nodded emphatically and began murmuring a _ kyrie _. The other one thought this was a fantastic idea, and began belting the melody throughout the throne room. Within moments, all three Christians were bellowing in song.

Mongke winced; William was not a trained vocalist, and the high-pitched Latin melodies were a far cry from the deep, steady songs of the steppe.

“Your turn,” the Khan called over the clamor, gesturing to the Muslims. Their leader looked at the others, took a deep breath, and all three launched into a loud recitation. Maglor recognized the first verses of the Quran.

The Buddhists, for their part, had shut their eyes and might as well have turned to stone. 

It was all so ridiculous, Maglor could barely keep from doubling over in laughter. _ While their coreligionists are killing each other in the holy land, they’re getting drunk and debating. _

It was nearly midnight before they dispersed. No further debate had been held, and eventually they were simply too drunk to go on.

Maglor helped them stumble back to their tents, and he stood watch for the rest of the night. 

The next day, they were summoned to the Khan’s palace. It turned out that they were not going to get an alliance after all: for a man who talked so much about religious tolerance, it seemed he was the rare person who would follow through. Either that, or he didn’t want the caliph as an enemy.

And so they began the journey back. Maglor kept his little stallion; it was the best horse he’d ridden in a long time. 

  
\-------------------

“Brother Matthew.” 

He finished his stroke before looking up from the fresh-printed vellum. “Yes?”

“The abbot has called a meeting. You are wanted in the great hall.”

He set down his brush, cautiously avoiding the page he was working on. Bibles were printed with machines now, but the wealthy still wanted their texts illuminated. 

Once he got to the great hall, it didn’t take long for the abbot to explain the situation. They were being run out of their monastery by the bankers, who wanted to use it as a house. It seemed ethically wrong to him, but it came at a fortuitous time. He was starting to feel stifled by the rules and routines of clerical life.

\------------------  
  
He hefted the chest into the wagon. It should have taken two men to lift, but not for him; it was good to see he hadn’t atrophied too badly in the monastery. 

Monks bustled around, loading up their possessions and cleaning out anything that they didn’t want left to the new tenant. Rumor had it he was a Lutheran. _ Heaven forbid. _

The man in question, a solid, dark character, hovered on the margins. They said he worked for the Cardinal, they said he was a banker, they said he was a whore’s bastard from Italy. Whatever the case, he was rich and only getting richer, powerful and only rising in prominence. 

The feat of strength must have caught the man’s attention, because he appeared by Maglor’s side. The elf hadn’t been paying his surroundings much mind and he didn’t notice the man’s approach until he was just a few feet away.

“What is your name?” the man asked. His voice was rough and so were his ungloved hands. 

“I am called brother Matthew.”

“Which war did you fight in?”

Maglor blinked. “Pardon?”

“I was a soldier, I can tell when a man’s been in battle. Was it France?”

“The third Punic war,” Maglor replied with complete sincerity. “I was on foot.”

The man smiled a little to acknowledge the joke, but it didn't reach his eyes. The third Punic war had concluded nearly two thousand years prior to that conversation. 

Maglor had taken to saying things like that, the reckless truths of himself, those days. People thought he was joking; they thought he was a criminal on the run, or a fourthborn son unable to come to terms with his lowly station and compelled to make up stories. He never made confession for lying, and the other monks probably thought him sinful for it. 

But this man, he looked as though he almost believed the tale. “Which side?”

“Carthage.”

“That must’ve stung.” The man looked out at the monks, packing their last belongings into carts. “And you know theology, Augustine and Jerome and the rest?”

“I’ve copied _ De doctrina Christiana _ at least six times, if that’s any use to you. I think all the copies were sold already, though.”

“How would you like a job? A fresh pair of theological eyes could be very useful right about now.”

Maglor stood there a moment. “I should ask my abbot.” 

“No need. He can’t stop you from leaving.”

“And if he does?”

“Then he has the king to answer to.”

Maglor moved in with the man, who it turned out was Cromwell, the banker, lawyer, and loyal servant to King Henry VIII. _ Why they can’t think up new names for their princes, I’ll never understand _. Two Henrys he could understand, three was reasonable. But eight? Ridiculous.

The situation, as Maglor understood it, was that the king had failed to produce an heir, and that he wanted to divorce in hopes of finding a more fertile mistress to carry on the line.

The whole system had always struck Maglor as a poor one. Depending on one man to produce a healthy male offspring that would hit adulthood before the old ruler died. Better to simply appoint the next ruler, or name the candidates in the will. The nobles could put it to a vote. That was what the Mongol Khans did.

Being a theologian was certainly a new experience. As a wanderer, or a guard, or a monk, he didn’t have to think very hard about what he was doing most of the time. Now, he needed to make a thousand years of religious law line up in favor of one petulant monarch. It made him want to start composing music again.

\------------- 

Maglor would never have thought that he would help start a new religion. But, a few decades later, here it was. They called themselves the Church of England, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty every time he thought about it. After so long lying low, Maglor had ended up sowing chaos and division once again.

But sometimes, that’s just what happened. Regardless, he needed to get away from this country: it was becoming dangerous.

On his way out of London, he crossed the river to walk through the disreputable side of town one last time. This was where the most interesting things happened in the city.

And today, he was not disappointed. A crowd was gathering outside a massive, round building to watch a bearbaiting. Maglor had always found that sort of thing distasteful, so he edged around the throng and slipped into the theater.

Inside the theater, a young man was strumming a guitar and singing. “_ Double, double, toil and trouble-- _” He paused, frowned, and tried a new chord.

“Use A-flat,” Maglor called. The boy looked up in surprise. “A-flat, for the second chord.”

The young man tried it, and it did sound much better. He kept going. “_ Fire burn, and cauldron bubble _…”

Maglor walked across the seating area and up to the stage. “And speed it up, it’ll sound better.”

Steps thudded backstage and an older man came into view. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m right, and you know it.”

“Get out! The show is about to start, and you don’t look like you’ve paid for admission.”

“Fine,” Maglor exhaled. “But I’m still right.”

\--------------

He’d been heading down south. There were good lutenists down in Rome, and beyond that, there were a plethora of people who would pay for his music. 

Instrument slung over his back, he picked his way through the cobbled streets of Rome. Rangy dogs sniffed after the pigeons that bumbled about in the streets, and fecal stains adorned the gutters. Not much had changed. 

But the last time he’d been here was so long ago. A thousand years or more; who could keep count? The humans switched to a new calendar all too often. 

Entering the city from the hills, he could still see the same skyline as had always greeted him. The amphitheater still rose far above its surroundings, a monument to blood sport. 

He was walking, somewhat aimlessly, around the city. His lute was slung across his back, but there wasn’t anything much for him to do with it. His stomach rumbles a little, but he was still a little too proud to start busking. 

There was a man sitting outside of a house, his plump face framed by a mop of dark hair and a carefully trimmed goatee. His shining eyes searched the crowd, and he wore an apron stained with paint. 

_ Artists. There’s too damn many of them. _ Italy was overrun by young men who thought they could be the next Michelangelo. Most could never even come close. 

The man’s darting gaze seized upon Maglor. “You!” he cried, jumping up from his seat. 

Maglor stiffened. “Yes?”

“How would you like to be Saint Andrew?”

Maglor cast his mind back, trying to remember who Saint Andrew was. There were probably a lot of Andrews, and he couldn’t remember any of them, so he gave up the effort. “What do you mean?” 

“I’m painting and I need a model. You look right. Come on, come on, follow me.” 

Maglor was too curious to walk away. He wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not; was Andrew one of those saints who starved himself to please the Lord? He followed the man through the dark entryway and into what could only have been his studio. It reeked of oil paint and turpentine. 

“Strip,” the man said. 

“What?”

“Undress.” The artist jerked his head at Maglor. 

The elf didn’t move just yet. “Who are you?”

“Michelangelo Merisi. They call me Caravaggio.”

_ He’s already one step closer to Buonarroti, _ Maglor thought wryly. “You need a nude model?”

“Not nude. No. Keep your loincloth or whatever it is you have, I just need your chest and legs.” He gestured with the handle of a paintbrush towards a series of sketches tacked to the wall. It looked like a fairly standard crucifixion scene, the kind that hung in ten thousand churches across Europe. 

But Maglor’s curiosity still wasn’t satisfied, so he cautiously set down his lute and pulled off his ragged tunic. He suddenly felt very awkward. 

“A bit scarred up, but you’ll do nicely,” the artist said. He started scribbling on a loose sheet of paper. 

Maglor glanced down. He’d seen better days. His skin had the gray-tinged pallor of the elderly and his knotted muscles and bones jutted through his skin without fat or flesh to cushion them. Scars snaked their way around his body, some pitted and sunken, others livid pink and jutting. He made a mental note to start eating more when he finally had some money. Which brought him to his next question. 

“Are you paying me?”

“A stipend. I don’t have all that much.”

“How long will it take?”

“One week. No more.”

“Can I stay here?”

“If you don’t cause trouble, and don’t mind it if I do. The loft is open if you can clean it up.”

“Gladly.” Paint fumes had no effect on him, and sleeping next to a bucket of arsenic green probably wouldn’t kill him either. He put his tunic back on and took his lute up the ladder. 

It was, as Caravaggio had promised, a mess. The floor was strewn with balding paintbrushes and splashed with pigments. Half-finished canvases were stacked against the walls or lay in curls all over the table. Rat droppings were evident in several places.

That was fine. The area under the table was clear, and after shifting a few cans of paint, Maglor was able to fit his possessions underneath it.

He stuck his head over the edge. “You want me now?” he called. 

“Yes!” the artist hollered back.

Maglor slid back down the ladder. Caravaggio had stacked paint cans in front of his windows to block out the sunlight, and lit candles on the floor to throw huge shadows on the wall.

The artist directed him to his position. There he stood, motionless, for about fifteen minutes before he realized how absolutely bored he was.

“What year is it?” Maglor asked. 

“1607,” the painter responded, not looking up. 

“Wow. Time passes." 

“I know. It seems like 1603 was just last year.”

Maglor laughed aloud. “Yes,” he said. “Certainly.”

\--------------

Caravaggio’s estimate had been exact. On the seventh day, Maglor was given a stipend and sent on his way.

“You should come by when it’s finished,” the artist said. “It’ll be ready in another month or two.”

Maglor had seen the part that was already painted, and he liked it. The light shining on Saint Andrew made him stand out against the pitch-black background, illuminating the agony in every feature. 

Maglor hadn’t modeled it that way. He’d spent most of his attention on chatting with the artist and had simply forgotten to emote. It had probably turned out better that way; for all his musical skill, he had never been a good actor.

With a heartfelt goodbye, Maglor set off with his instrument towards the wealthy quarter of the city. He planned to make some money, perhaps hold a job for a few years, and then what? He’d been hearing a lot about the New World to the west. _ It’s not Valinor. At least, I don’t think it is _. If it were, elvish culture must have changed drastically over the last few thousand years. 

Yes, that was probably where he would go. He could do with a change in scenery.


End file.
